


the cost of happiness

by kinneyb



Series: toussaint [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: He quickly leaned forward, eyeing the map. Corvo Bianco was one of the most famous vineyards of Toussaint, also one of the oldest. It had been abandoned, he knew, and hadn’t had an owner since.“A whole vineyard?” he asked skeptically. “For one job?”Anna smiled sweetly, too sweet. “A whole vineyard,” she assured him. “You will have your very own majordomo, even, to help with any plans or remodeling you will surely want done.” She rolled the map back up. “As I’m sure you know, the place hasn’t had an owner in a while. It will need a lot of work done, but still. You could turn the vineyard into a lovely home, or even just a resting place on your travels.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: toussaint [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863160
Comments: 26
Kudos: 444





	the cost of happiness

**Author's Note:**

> canon divergent from the games (take everything w/ a grain of salt bc ive never actually played the games!)
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Toussaint was a beautiful place, full of greenery and impressive architecture. Described by many as a serene place, almost magical in nature. That was Geralt’s first thought upon entering the duchy. He could smell the sweet aroma of expensive alcohol in the air, and feel the sun on the back of his neck. Not far from the path, he could also hear the chatter of people.

It wasn’t a leisurely visit, of course. He had been approached by a man a few nights ago while he was staying in a small town, informing him that the Duchess of Toussaint required his services. He had been skeptical at first, not quite believing him, but then the man had shown a letter, stamped with the seal of Toussaint.

Satisfied that it wasn’t a trick, he had asked for the details of the contract. The man hadn’t been able—or willing—to provide him with many details. “You should really ask her these questions,” he had said, fidgeting, eyes flickering nervously around the tavern. They were being watched by many curious eyes. “She will be gravely disappointed if you do not—”

“Fine,” he had interrupted, because frankly his money was low—he hadn’t taken a contract since the hunt for the dragon—and he knew a Duchess would pay generously. 

In the morning, he had grabbed his things and jumped on the back of Roach, heading for Toussaint.

Now, days later, he had arrived. Pulling on Roach’s reins, they slowed to a stop and he climbed off her before continuing down the path. The man—one of her informants, apparently—had told him to continue to Beauclair Palace without pause upon arrival, that the Duchess was anxiously awaiting his arrival. 

So, that was what he did. It was a beautiful castle, situated high above the rest of the city.

Geralt suddenly thought of Jaskier, and what he would think of this place. Or if he had ever visited. Really, how much did he know about the bard? And how much of that was his own fault, for never asking? Surely he would’ve loved all the vineyards, as he had always had an appreciation for nature. 

(Not to mention, alcohol.)

Even his nickname—Dandelion—showcased that. That particular line of thought quickly became too painful, and he pushed it away. He passed through the streets, where there were many carts, selling an array of things. 

A lot of the people startled at the sight of him, talking amongst themselves and pointing or glaring.

Geralt ignored them, continuing on. He wasn’t surprised when he was greeted by guards upon reaching the bottom of the path that led to Beauclair Palace. They nodded curtly.

“The White Wolf,” one of them said, bowing slightly. “Our Grace has been awaiting your arrival.”

Geralt’s mouth twisted; he never did much enjoy pleasantries. “Well,” he said dryly. “Here I am.”

The guard blinked at him from under his helmet before nodding again, harshly clearing his throat. He turned—along with his partner. “Follow us,” he said, holding his head high in an attempt to look more important—or threatening, perhaps—than he really was. Geralt snorted as he followed them up the long winding path.

Once at the top, a man approached and took Roach off his hands, leading her to the stables. 

Geralt didn’t quite like being separated her before knowing the details of the contract, or the layout of the palace, but he also didn’t want to throw a fit too early and lose his chance at a well-paying job. At least no one had tried to confiscate his swords yet. That would not be so easily forgiven. 

A man approached them after that, nodding at the guards, who turned and made their way back down the path. Geralt watched them for a moment before turning back to the man. He was quickly growing tired of this nonsense. 

“The Duchess?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “She _is_ the one who requested my presence, correct?”

He extended a hand, and Geralt pointedly did not take it. Pursing his lips, he dropped his hand. “Her Grace, yes,” he confirmed, tugging on his lapels. “Follow me.”

They entered the largest part of the palace. Geralt looked around. Admittedly he was a little impressed; the palace was beautiful, as expected, but also surprisingly cozy, warm colors and the relaxing scent of spices in the air.

But more importantly he took that time to memorize; every door, every hall, filing it away for later. Only if he needed it, of course. While they walked, the man spoke and spoke, never shutting up for long. He reminded him of Jaskier, but with far less charm.

“Always address her by ‘Your Grace’,” he said at one point. Geralt had just grunted in reply.

Suddenly the man stopped in front of him, and Geralt barely caught himself before bumping into him, mouth twisted in an annoyed frown. “Here you are, sir—”

“Geralt,” he replied blandly, and the man stepped out of the way. 

“Right, yes, of course. I’m Sebastian—”

The doors opened, cutting him off, and Geralt squinted at the bright sun pouring in through what were easily dozens of windows, lining almost every wall of the room. It was huge; a meeting room of some sort by the looks of it. He was ushered in by the man and then the doors closed with a clank, locking.

Promising sign.

The table in the middle of the room was decorated lavishly with flowers and odd trinkets.

“Geralt of Rivia,” a voice said from his left. He turned toward it; a beautiful woman stepped out from behind a bookshelf, long strands of chestnut hair falling over her shoulders with a crown positioned on top of her head, blue gems sparkling. “What a pleasure.”

He grunted in reply. Despite her appearance, she didn’t seem affronted by his disinterest, just walked to the table and gestured. 

“Sit with me,” she said. “We have business to discuss.” 

Geralt hmmed as he circled around the table and took a chair. She settled in the one across from him, folding her hands together on top of the table with a polite smile. 

“Your Grace,” he started, but she put a hand up. 

“Please,” she said, mouth twitching. “Sebastian is always like that. I’m sure you know my real name.” He did; Anna Henrietta. “But you may call me Anarietta.”

He blinked at that. “Right,” he said after a beat. “Anarietta,” he continued breezily. “What is it you want me to do here? I can’t say this looks like the kind of place that needs a monster hunter very often.”

Anna let out a soft laugh with very little humor. “Yes, well, that was true for a long period of time.” He watched, silent, as she squeezed her hands together. “But lately we’ve had a bit of a… problem. I have tried other means, before resorting to this—no offense—” Geralt just shrugged; none taken “—but it seems like our best bet is you, dear witcher.”

Geralt placed a hand on the table, tapping the wood with his fingers. “ _Well?_ ” he prompted impatiently. “What’s your problem?”

He expected something unexciting, an easy kill for easy money. But then she looked away, staring out of one of the many windows with a pained expression. Geralt sat up a little straighter, interested despite himself. 

“Why don’t we start with your payment?” she said finally, looking back with a forced smile.

Geralt knew never to take a payment before a job was finished. “I’d rather not,” he replied blankly.

Anna waved him off. “Just let me tell you what your payment will be, then,” she said, arching a thin eyebrow. He supposed he didn’t have a problem with that. Leaning back, he waited as she pulled something out; a map, it seemed, of the area. “You will be paid in money,” she started, “but that’s not all—you shall also receive ownership of Corvo Bianco.”

He blinked slowly. Once, twice. He quickly leaned forward, eyeing the map. Corvo Bianco was one of the most famous vineyards of Toussaint, also one of the oldest. It had been abandoned, he knew, and hadn’t had an owner since.

“A whole vineyard?” he asked skeptically. “For one job?”

Anna smiled sweetly, too sweet. “A whole vineyard,” she assured him. “You will have your very own majordomo, even, to help with any plans or remodeling you will surely want done.” She rolled the map back up. “As I’m sure you know, the place hasn’t had an owner in a while. It will need a lot of work done, but still. You could turn the vineyard into a lovely home, or even just a resting place on your travels.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. The sweet smile never left her face, painted permanently across her sharp features. He looked away, staring out of one of the windows. The sun was bright in the sky. His hands twitched in his lap. 

He had always dreamed—secretly, _very_ secretly—of having a place to call home, a safe place to relax, a warm bed. He hadn’t had that (for long) as a child, and he certainly didn’t have that as an adult. But he always assumed that would never happen for him.

He would always be bound to the road, a traveler until the day he died.

And the thing was, he didn’t want to settle down—not in the typical sense. He would always be drawn to the road to some degree, but the idea of having a place to relax, especially during the colder months, wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was nice.

And a vineyard on top of everything. Jaskier would love it. But that didn’t matter much, did it? They hadn’t seen each other in months, ever since their fight on the mountain. If it could even be called that, considering Jaskier hadn’t done much fighting back.

Finally he looked back at the woman still sat across from him. “I—I always dreamed of a comfortable bed,” he admitted, a little too raw. She blinked once, the smile slipping away before coming back, a bit more sincere. “This would be my first estate,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I would be honored.”

Anna nodded, “Is it a deal, then?”

Geralt smirked, a small curl at the corner of his mouth. “Not so fast,” he said gruffly. “You still haven’t told me the actual details of the contract.” 

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Right,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “A certain something has been attacking our knights,” she said, mouth twisting nastily. 

Geralt leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Annoyingly vague,” he commented dryly, and she rolled her eyes, waving him off.

“I have an idea what it is,” she continued, “but I’m hesitant to say because… if I’m right, I’m not sure you will be happy to hear it.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “I’m listening.”

She licked her lips, painted mauve with lipstick. “A vampire,” she said sharply. “And not one of those bottom-dwellers. They are smart; I’ve tried everything I could and still no luck. That is why I had to resort to requesting your presence.” 

“And you know this because—?”

Anna smacked a hand on the table. “All our knights, drained dry. Night after night.”

He blinked once. That was interesting. Most vampires needed blood to survive; the highest of them—deemed simply _higher_ vampires—did not. Lower vampires didn’t bother to drink more than necessary because it was dangerous, gathering that kind of attention. However higher vampires drank for the fun of it, for the euphoric effect.

Some were like alcoholics, unable to get enough and always craving more.

“Do you know much about vampires?” he asked after a moment.

Anna shook her head, “I’ve been collecting books on them, but most of the information is limited or false.”

Geralt nodded, closing his eyes for a second before reopening them, squaring his shoulders. “You might be facing a higher vampire,” he said. “If so, they are strong. Even by our standards. Witchers rarely accept contracts to kill them, and the ones that do often do not live to tell the tale.”

She cursed under her breath, banging the table again. “So, what?” she asked. “You won’t do it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied gruffly. “I will, but only on one condition.”

Anna settled him with a serious look. “Anything.”

“If I manage to kill it,” he said slowly, “but I do not survive, my payment will be transferred to Jaskier, the bard. Full name: Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

Her eyes widened but only briefly before her expression resettled, cool and calm. “Very well.” She reached over and pulled a scroll closer, unfolding it. “I made us a contract, in the hopes you would accept,” she admitted, looking almost sheepish for the first time. She pulled closer a jar of ink, quill resting in it. 

Geralt shook his head. “Add the condition,” he said, “then I’ll sign.”

Smiling slightly, she took the quill and began to write. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this.” He took the quill from her and signed his name alongside her own. “You must be close with this bard, offering him something like this.”

“I’m hoping it will be a decent enough apology,” he replied quietly.

Anna was still smiling as she rolled the parchment back up, “How could it not be? An entire estate is one hell of an apology, witcher.”

Geralt let out a humorless laugh. “You do not know the full story, unfortunately,” he said, remembering the way Jaskier’s voice had cracked on the mountain. His stomach lurched with guilt. “If you do not mind, I am exhausted from my travels.”

She nodded, already standing up. “Of course; rest tonight and I’ll tell you more about the attacks in the morning. Hopefully this can be handled quickly.”

Geralt left the room, escorted by a squirrelly man. He led him to the guest wing and showed him to his room for the night, maybe longer. Once he was alone, he discarded his bags and walked to the bed. He was grateful to find ink on the bedside table, and a stack of parchment in the drawer, tied together with a ribbon.

He grabbed everything, settling, and dipped the quill in the ink. He had never been good with words, spoken or otherwise, but he had to try. 

_Dear Jaskier,_ he wrote. It had been a while since he wrote a letter, formal or casual. Actually, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had written a letter. He hesitated long enough he had to dip the quill again before he could continue.

 _I’m sorry,_ he continued, a sour taste in his mouth. _For everything. I treated you unfairly. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, if not when you get this letter, maybe later. I took a contract in Toussaint. I will not only be paid in money, but a lovely estate. Corvo Bianco._

Geralt paused, taking a deep breath. He didn’t know how much he should say about the actual contract. 

_From the sounds of it, this lovely duchy has fallen prey to a higher vampire. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know this—I have asked the Duchess to put you on the contract. If something is to happen to me — or if you can ever forgive me, and would simply like to visit — the estate is yours as much as it is mine. No strings attached. I truly am sorry._

He swallowed thickly and finished by signing his name. 

*

In the morning, he sent off the letter. Anna didn’t ask any questions, just had the staff fetch him everything he needed before rushing off with the letter, tucked away safely in an envelope addressed to the bard. He could only hope the letter would reach him. Afterwards, they sat together at breakfast.

Geralt wasn’t very hungry. He poked at his food, stomach churning.

Anna seemed to feel similarly, picking apart the same piece of bread for nearly ten minutes. “You did not have to agree to this,” she said finally. He looked up, surprised. “It is dangerous; I know it as well as you do. You are not obligated to do anything.”

“I know that,” he replied gruffly. “I made my choice.”

She stared at him, silent and prodding, for a few long seconds before nodding. “The vampire,” she said, swiftly changing topics, “has been attacking knights, like I said. So far no common folks have been attacked. All the victims were guarding the palace or roaming the streets as part of the nightly sweep. No one has actually seen the thing, even when they were just feet away from the attack.”

Geralt hmmed. “Fast, then, and obviously has a preference for nobility.” 

Anna nodded curtly. “Seems so.”

“Do you have an extra set of armor?” he asked, and she blinked once before she smiled, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Do you really think a vampire, especially one as powerful as you say, would fall for such a lazy trap?”

Geralt shrugged, leaning back. “No harm in trying, is there?”

“Unless they figure out you’re here and make a run for it,” she pointed out.

Geralt had to admit she had a point, but he had found—over the years—that the simplest idea was sometimes the best. He leaned forward again. “If that happens,” he said, perfectly even, “I will track them down and take care of them.”

Anna raised her eyebrows, looking pleasantly surprised. “Very well.”

*

Later, he visited Corvo Bianco by himself. It was as rundown as the Duchess had claimed; a mess, really. But a promising mess, he couldn’t help thinking, as he roamed the estate. He imagined Jaskier, living here with him a few months out of the year and producing only the tastiest of wine, growing roses (and maybe some dandelions). Maybe even throwing a few parties. He didn’t quite enjoy parties, but Jaskier did.

It was all just a dream, of course. A fantasy that had slipped through his fingers during that day on the mountain. 

He knew Jaskier would receive his letter—he didn’t doubt that—but he also knew he would probably toss it, and understandably so. He couldn’t even be mad at him. 

Geralt approached a building, just as rundown as the rest of the place. The door was open. He blinked and suddenly there was Jaskier, standing in the doorway, smiling brightly.

His heart squeezed at the sight, knowing it was fake. When he blinked again, Jaskier was gone and he was alone again. A choice he had made all those months ago. 

Shaking his head, he turned and walked away, headed back to Beauclair Palace. He had a job to do. 

And if he was lucky, reports of his death would reach Jaskier and he would come here, claiming Corvo Bianco as his own. Maybe he could build a new life for himself on the backbone of what Geralt could never give him. Witchers didn’t cry, he’d been told as a young boy, but that wasn’t exactly true. Or maybe he was simply a freak to his own kind in more ways than one because as he left the estate, he felt his eyes stinging, the promise of tears. He curled his hands into fists, digging blunt fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop the tears from falling.

*

Anna was waiting for him, shoulders stiff. The sun was low in the sky as the night grew closer. Geralt didn’t need to hear a word to know the bad news. She turned toward him. “Another victim,” she said tersely. “Last night while we were both sleeping.”

He opened his mouth, but she just barreled on,

“We didn’t find them until after you left, drained dry and left to rot behind the palace.” She looked down. Geralt could see her bottom lip trembling. He wisely didn’t say anything. “Tonight,” she said. “You have to finish this by tonight or the contract is off.”

He nodded curtly. “I understand,” he said. “I shouldn’t have wait—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, looking up. “Excuses or apologies are just empty words.” Geralt couldn’t rightfully argue that, as he felt similarly. _Except regarding Jaskier,_ his brain supplied unhelpfully. _You would drop to your knees to beg for his forgiveness._ He pushed the thought away. “Just find them, Geralt,” she said. “And kill them.”

Geralt nodded again. “I will,” he said, meaning it, “no matter the cost.”

Even if the cost was his own life. 

She smiled, tight around the edges. “The set of armor you asked for is in your room. The armory is also open to you, but—” Her eyes flickered to the swords on his back. “I doubt you will be needing it.”

Geralt walked around her into the palace. He had missed supper, but he didn’t much care. He wasn’t very hungry for once. The armor was waiting for him, like promised, stacked on his bed. The scent of someone else was still on them, fresh. He wondered idly if they had belonged to one of the victims. His stomach churned as he prepared for what was undoubtedly going to be a very long night, and perhaps his last.

He was oddly calm—thinking about his death. He remembered telling Jaskier, once, that witchers only stopped hunting once they were dead. 

Geralt walked to the only mirror in the room. In the armor, he looked like any other guard. 

“Well,” he said to his reflection, smiling grimly. “You deserve this.”

Sighing, he turned away and left the room, swords heavy on his back. He forced all of it down—the guilt, the regret, the fear—as he left the palace. Anna was still waiting, hands folded together in front of her, shoulders pushed back. 

“Be safe,” she said, and he couldn’t say he’d been expecting it.

Geralt stared at her, unblinking.

Her mouth twisted oddly. “They say your kind don’t feel emotions,” she continued. “Maybe that’s true, maybe not, but I know this—you have someone you care about.” He finally blinked, caught off-guard. “The bard,” she clarified, as if she needed to. As if he wasn’t constantly on Geralt’s mind. “Jaskier, was it?”

Geralt looked away. His brain swirled messily with a million different thoughts. All he could do, in the end, was just grunt.

“Be safe,” she repeated with a hint of amusement, seeping through the solemness of the situation. “For him.”

Nodding curtly, he turned and walked away. 

*

He started below the palace, among commoners. A few other guards were already down, but he turned them all back toward the palace. “I’ll take care of it,” he told them. Geralt waited for most of them to disappear in the direction of the palace before he started his rounds, circling around and checking between and behind every building, questioning any person he saw. Most of them were stupid kids, out after dark for the thrill of it. Thankfully the vampire—if they were right about the kind of creature he was facing—didn’t seem too interested in them. 

They had a taste for nobility, it seemed, and he was there to deliver, armor glinting under the moonlight as he moved through the deserted streets. The helmet was the only annoying part, too big and clunky. He resisted the urge to rip it off.

This would all be for naught, of course, if the vampire choose tonight to attack closer to the palace. But as much as Geralt was faster, stronger than the average human, even he couldn’t be in two places at once. 

Hours passed, silent and uneventful. 

Geralt kept glancing at the palace, but there was no sign of trouble. Frowning, he turned away and that was when he heard it. Not footsteps, exactly, but—something from a few alleyways down. He knew he wouldn’t have heard it if he didn’t have enhanced hearing.

A human wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Geralt looked away. Tapped his foot. Crossed his arms, whistling quietly. 

But he wasn’t attacked. The sound didn’t happen again. 

Narrowing his eyes, he walked toward the alleyway, stopping every few feet to prepare for an attack. But nothing. Once he was close enough, he reached for the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it. Without waiting, he jumped into the alleyway, eyes blazing. 

It was dark, nearly black, but he had no trouble seeing. The alley was empty. 

Frowning, he lowered his sword a little and—before he knew it, he was on the ground, flipped over. A man was on top of him, eyes glowing in the darkness, showcasing rows and rows of sharp teeth. Geralt reached for his sword but his hand slapped dirt. He turned his head enough to see his sword, a few feet away. 

“Fuck,” he said.

The vampire jumped off him. Geralt scrambled to his feet but he was too late: the alley was empty again.

“Fuck,” he repeated before he grabbed his sword and took off after him. He wasn’t giving up so easily, not after everything. He knew Anna would not—could not—rest until he had that bastard’s head on a stick.

*

Geralt tried to find him, but it was for naught. He searched Toussaint all night before returning. Anna tried to hide her disappointment. Geralt prepared for her to toss their contract in the fireplace. It was deserved; he had failed to do the job.

But—“ _One_ more night,” she said tersely. “Do not disappoint me again.”

All he could do was nod, holding the helmet awkwardly in his arms. She turned away and left. Geralt slept most of the day, resting for the hunt. Once the sky was dark, he left the palace without a word and descended the path.

He no longer bothered with cheap tricks; no helmet, back in his usual armor. He walked to the middle of the city, sword already unsheathed, a comforting weight in the palm of his hand, grounding him.

Geralt had left an envelope on his pillow, addressed to Jaskier. He knew if he did not return and Anna found it, she would mail it. He trusted her enough for that. The letter was simple and blunt.

 _If this letter reaches you, Jaskier, that means I failed in more ways than one. I’m sorry. Forgive me._ Then—added quickly, at the last second: _I love you._

He should’ve been scared, maybe, of the thought of death. But he wasn’t. If anything, the idea of death was comforting. But the idea of leaving Jaskier, even if only temporarily, was—too much. He tried not to think about that as he raised his sword and slowly slid the blade across his arm. Blood prickled from the gash. The smell of iron.

He hadn’t abandoned _all_ his cheap tricks.

Geralt watched as blood dripped from the gash, almost mesmerized by it. It was a dire mistake. He was tackled, thrown to the ground with a huff. Thankfully he hadn’t released his sword this time, still gripped tightly.

He should’ve been able to finish it, but the vampire was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” he gasped as he felt claws suddenly digging into his side. The vampire appeared out of thin air, grinning wickedly. He no longer looked human, not quite, with long claws and pointed ears. 

“I’m not like the others,” he hissed, spitting in his face. Geralt tried to move, but he was pinned under the vampire’s strength. “I am stronger—faster. You can’t defeat me.”

Geralt barked out a laugh. “I caught you the other night,” he said, ignoring the throbbing pain in his side. 

He snarled like an animal, pressing down more weight. He wasn’t very big, really, but his strength was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He groaned. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have a few busted ribs by the end of this—if he survived at all. He thought of Jaskier, suddenly, of his cheerful grin and sparkling eyes. Fuck. Fuck, he’d made a mistake.

He really, really didn’t want to die.

“I’ll admit,” the vampire started, leaning down, down, “I wasn’t at my best when we last met, but do not worry—tonight will prove what I’m really capable of.”

Geralt’s fingers twitched as he struggled, trying to form a sign. Even just something to shock him. Normally, he had perfect control of his body. But tonight—tonight his heart was beating like crazy, a rushing in his ears.

If he didn’t do something, and _fast_ —

The vampire pressed his face against his neck, taking a deep breath, scenting him. 

“Jaskier,” he gasped as he felt the first prick of pain. 

Suddenly the weight was being thrown off him, crashing to the side. Geralt gasped again, filling his air with lungs. Fuck. He sat up, eyes darting around. He saw the vampire a few feet away, snarling at—

Geralt couldn't believe what he was seeing. Jaskier, but there was something _wrong_. His ears were too long, pointed at the tips. He swiped at the other vampire with long claws, baring his teeth. 

Sharp, sharp teeth.

He took a shaky breath. "Jaskier," he breathed, unsure of what else to say.

Jaskier barely glanced at him before he was tackling the other vampire. They started to fight, dancing around each other, too fast for even his eyes. Geralt slowly stood up on shaky legs, clutching his sword.

He needed to—to do _something_. To help Jaskier, but they were too fast, just blurs of movement. He heard clashing of claws or teeth, he wasn't sure.

There was so much he didn't understand, especially as he caught a clear glimpse of Jaskier's face, wild and snarling, but he knew this:

He would never turn his back on Jaskier again.

Clenching his jaw, he ignored the throbbing pain in his side and rushed to join the battle. If he focused hard enough, he could almost keep track of their movements. Almost would have to be good enough.

Yelled over the clashing was his name—"Geralt! _Don't!_ "

But he didn't stop. No, he couldn't. He had abandoned Jaskier, once, on the mountain. Never again. He lifted his sword, narrowing his eyes, and surged forward. The sound of the blade ripping through flesh was satisfying. The vampire screamed, throwing his head back. 

"You idiot," he growled, twisting his head around, eyes blazing. "You can't kill me."

Geralt smiled. "I know."

His eyes flickered up. Jaskier stared back at him. With a curt nod from both sides, Jaskier swiped at the vampire's neck. Blood splattered across his face. It still wasn't enough to kill him, evident by the way he continued to scream and struggle. Geralt yanked his sword out and watched as he fell heavily.

"You idiot!" the vampire snarled, eyes blazing. " _You_ —"

Jaskier dropped on top of him and visibly hesitated, looking up with an expression akin to shame or embarrassment. Geralt nodded again. Seemingly satisfied, he looked back down and plunged his hand into the vampire's chest. He found his still heart and wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it out of his chest with an animalistic snarl.

The vampire gasped once before finally going limp, eyes rolling back. 

Jaskier stared at the heart for a long moment before tossing it aside. He stood up and lifted his head. He was a vampire—not just any vampire, one of the strongest creatures known to man—and he was standing in front of Geralt, covered in blood and nearly on the verge of crying, bottom lip trembling. 

Geralt slowly sheathed his sword, searching desperately for the right words. 

"I'm—"

Jaskier rushed forward, throwing his arms around his neck. "Don't," he said. "You big fucking _idiot_." 

Geralt stood, frozen, for a seconds. Finally, he reached up and slipped his arms around Jaskier's waist. Jaskier buried his face in the crook of his neck; maybe he should've been frightened, a vampire so close to the their favorite feeding spot, but he wasn't. Because this wasn't just some vampire.

This was Jaskier, and, oh, how he had missed him.

He nosed at his hair. Oak and honey, a familiar scent. He squeezed, pulling him closer. "I have questions," he said gruffly. Jaskier shifted, lips brushing against his neck. Still no fear. No, he felt something but it wasn't fear, not even close. Geralt closed his eyes. "But it can wait."

They only parted once Geralt's stiff muscles couldn't take it any longer. He reached up and gently cupped the side of Jaskier's face. Jaskier leaned into his touch.

"Did you come back just to save me?" he asked, stomach churning. "Or because you wish to stay?"

Jaskier smiled slightly. He looked entirely human again, like the bard he had first met decades ago in a tavern. He looked _beautiful_. Geralt was almost blown away by the realization. That this person—strong and beautiful and stubborn—had stuck by him for so long. 

"I wish to be with you," was his answer, soft and sincere.

Geralt almost sobbed, lightly brushing his thumb across Jaskier's cheek. There was a small gash, there, from the fight. It was already healing. "I want that."

"Good," Jaskier replied before surging forward, fast, slamming their lips together. 

It was far from the most romantic scenery for a kiss, a dead body still at their feet, but he didn't care. He tugged him closer, parting his lips. Jaskier took the invitation, licking into his mouth. Geralt could feel the too-sharp press of a tooth. Suddenly it was gone and Jaskier muttered something—"sorry"—into his mouth. They had a lot of talking to do after this, both about their feelings and what Jaskier had been hiding from him for so long, but right then—it was all forgotten.

It was just the two of them, finally together again.

*

Finally, they traveled back to the palace. Geralt carried the vampire's head, tucked under his arm. Jaskier kept eyeballing it. "And you wonder why I might've been inclined to hide my true nature," he said, but it was light and teasing. Because he knew as well as Geralt did that, vampire or not, he never would've killed Jaskier.

He tried not to kill beasts unless they were a threat, money be damned.

But it was more than that. He could never kill Jaskier, even if he _was_ a threat.

Anna was waiting for them. As soon as she saw the head, she covered her mouth. "Is that—?"

He tossed it at her feet. "Your people are safe."

She turned to a guard, nodding. He rushed over and took the head away. Probably for the best; it was a gruesome sight. She stepped forward and—as if noticing him for the first time—turned to Jaskier, eyes widening. 

"And _you_ are?" she asked with a hint of amusement. 

Geralt interjected before Jaskier could answer, suddenly warm all over. "This is Jaskier."

She turned to him. "Oh." She smiled, eyes sparkling. Just what he was afraid of. She extended a hand, and he took it, graceful as ever. "It is a pleasure, truly. He spoke _very_ fondly of you, Jaskier."

"Is that right?" he asked with a grin, looking over at the other man, who ducked his head with a forced cough. 

It was silly to be embarrassed by this—he had just kissed the bard for what was easily twenty minutes, but that had been easy. Geralt had always been better with actions than words. Words were _hard_ for him. He always said the wrong thing. But as he stared at Jaskier, conversing with the Countess, he knew he would have to try. 

"I hope you both will stay for a few days," she continued, undeterred. 

"I would like that," he said softly. "I would like to see Corvo Bianco."

Geralt stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Jaskier's shoulders. Jaskier turned to look at him, smiling softly. He returned it. Anna raised both eyebrows, smirking. 

"Of course," she said with a slight bow. She lifted her gaze again. "May you both enjoy it."

*

They entered the palace, and Jaskier followed silently as he was led to the room Geralt had been using for the last few days. They would visit Corvo Bianco in the morning, once the sun was up. They could both see in the dark, to a degree, but Jaskier had been adamant about waiting.

"I want to see it," he started, "in all its glory."

Geralt hadn't argued, hadn't even thought about it. He was starting to think he would never argue with Jaskier again, not if he could help it. Guard were positioned in front of his room. With a quick nod, they opened the door. Geralt pulled Jaskier in after him, their fingers interlaced. 

As soon as the door was shut, and they were finally alone again, he grabbed Jaskier and kissed him.

Jaskier laughed lightly, pressing a series of soft kisses to the corner of his mouth before pulling away. "You should rest," he said, gently brushing a hand through his hair.

"Only if you join me," he replied breezily.

He knew vampires—especially a higher—didn't need sleep. Like blood, they could take part in it but it wasn't needed for their survival or health. Jaskier nosed at his jaw. "Of course," he breathed. 

Geralt knew they still needed to talk, but that could wait until the morning.

Turning away, Jaskier walked to the bed, their fingers still interlocked. Jaskier's skin was cold; how had he never noticed before now? He stopped suddenly, and Geralt peered over his shoulder.

The letter. He froze.

"That's not—"

Jaskier let go of his hand and reached for it. "For me?"

Geralt wanted to rip it out of his hands, but he didn't. He took a steadying breath. If he wanted to be truthful, this was a good way to start. "Yes. I wrote it before I left."

He turned, holding the letter. "I don't have to read it."

Jaskier, always so kind and understanding. Geralt smiled, a little tight. "You should," he said around the sizable lump in his throat. He stepped around Jaskier and sat on the bed, patting the spot next to him. Jaskier joined him. "Go on."

He hesitated. "Geralt—"

"I want you to," he interrupted, and he was surprised to realize he meant it.

Jaskier stared at him for a few long seconds before nodding curtly. Looking down, he slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope, opening it. 

Geralt was stiff and silent, waiting as his eyes skimmed the letter. At the end—at the climax; _I love you_ —Jaskier let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. He lowered the letter, hands shaking. Geralt opened his mouth, closed it.

"Why?" he asked quietly. "If you felt this way, why?"

He knew what he was asking. "It was because I loved you, though I don't think I knew it at the time," he answered truthfully, the words like needles on his tongue. But he braved it; it was what Jaskier deserved. "I pushed you away because—I thought you would be _happier_ on your own." That wasn't quite right. He closed his eyes. "Safer, at least."

But he had been an idiot. Jaskier wasn't just capable; he was strong, and not just because he had the fangs to prove it.

He had always been strong. Geralt had just been to blind to see it.

"And what about _her?_ " he asked sharply, gently folding the letter. His hands still shook.

Yennefer; he hadn't seen her since the mountain. He still hoped to see her again, but no longer for the same reasons. He really did care for her, just not in that way. Maybe he never had, he was realizing. Maybe he had wished for it, but he had never felt for her what he felt—now—for Jaskier.

But she had been there, brave and unstoppable. He _should've_ felt something for her. He had thought being with her would be easy. He wouldn't have to constantly protect her, worry for her. She had proven she could take care of herself.

Geralt hesitated briefly before reaching out, taking one of his hands. Jaskier allowed him. He stroked his knuckles with his thumb. "I do not want her," he said, quiet and sincere.

Jaskier turned toward him. "That isn't enough," he said with a quiver of his chin. "I want to _hear_ it."

He deserved that. Geralt couldn't remember the last time he had said those words. He assumed he had said it, occasionally, when he was a young boy, before his mother had abandoned him. 

There was a pressure in his chest, uncomfortable and new. 

But also weirdly freeing. 

"I love you, Jaskier," he said.  
Jaskier blinked once before he grinned, wide, and lurched forward, kissing him. It was a soft kiss, unlike the one from before. He wasn't complaining. He kissed back, just as softly, closing his eyes.

Gently pushing him back on the bed, Jaskier crawled on top of him, straddling him. Geralt still wasn't complaining; he slid his hands up the back of Jaskier's shirt. His skin was oddly cool, lacking the usual warmth of a human. How had he never noticed, before? Didn't matter, now, he supposed as they resumed kissing.

After a while, Jaskier pulled back. His eyes were soft. "I love you," he whispered, barely audible. "I've loved you for a very long time."

Geralt had so much he wanted to say, heart swelling, but he had used up his words for the day. Left with no other choice, he simply yanked him back down, kissing him again, trying to convey everything he felt. Jaskier seemed to understand, returning the kiss with a pleased laugh.

*

In the morning, they left early and made the trek to Corvo Bianco. With Jaskier no longer hiding his true nature, he was able to use his abilities at full capacity. Which meant what should've been a casual trek turned—quickly, and unexpectedly—into a race. Jaskier was, of course, faster.

They reached the outskirts of Corvo Bianco and Jaskier stopped suddenly. Geralt slammed into him, and they both went tumbling. Jaskier's laughter was like music to his ears.

Geralt stood up first, helping him up. His mouth twitched with amusement. "You mean, we could've been traveling like that this whole time?"

Jaskier dusted off his shirt. "There is always the future to look forward to," he said, eyes twinkling. 

He was right. For once Geralt was actually kind of excited for the future. "Come on," he said gruffly, extending a hand. Jaskier took it. "Let me show you around."

They walked around Corvo Bianco, hand-in-hand, with Geralt pointing out almost everything he had noticed during his earlier visit, feeling oddly excited, like a child on their birthday. Jaskier let him, nodding in the right spots and lighty squeezing his hand, smiling softly.

"I thought—well, I don't know. We could stay here a few months out of the year," he said after he had finished showing him around, pointedly not looking at Jaskier.

The idea of settling down still didn't appeal to him. _Long-term_ , but the idea of staying in the same spot with Jaskier for a few months was nice. Maybe he wouldn't have to work. Jaskier could still perform, but for fun. It was kind of naive, maybe, to dream of such a thing.

Jaskier hummed, quiet and thoughtful. "Geralt," he said. He still didn't lift his head. Jaskier clicked his tongue. "Look at me."

He looked up, clenching his jaw. Jaskier was staring at him; his eyes were so blue, endless like the ocean. Reaching out, Jaskier cupped the side of his neck, thumbing his jaw. "I would like that," he said gently.

Geralt relaxed, just a little. "I'm—" He paused, sighing heavily and finally leaning into his touch, indulging in it. Jaskier's fingers were rough and cool, calming. "I'm going to fuck this up," he continued after a long stretch of silence. 

Because that was what he did. He fucked things up. Purposeful or accidental; good things always left him sooner or later. He had accepted, long ago, that maybe he just didn't _deserve_ good things.

Most of humanity seemed to agree with that, at least. He was a monster, undeserving of love and even just civility. 

But Jaskier had always stuck by his side, despite it all. 

Until that fateful moment he had pushed him away, for good, on the mountain. His stomach churned with the memory, and Jaskier pulled him out of it, leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. It was a hot day, and the cool touch of his forehead was soothing.

"You won't," he said.

"How can you know that?" he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. "You know what I'm capable of," he continued. "How _cruel_ I can be when—"

Jaskier kissed him, cutting him off. When he pulled back, he was smiling, small and sincere and beautiful. "Because I won't ever leave your side again," he said. "Not for as long as we both shall live. I don't care what you say or do; you're stuck with me, Geralt."

Geralt smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. "Always so stubborn."

"One of my better qualities, really," he replied breezily, grabbing his hand and turning away. "So." He squeezed his hand, looking around at _their_ estate. Their property. Their _home_. The place needed a lot of work, undoubtedly, but they could do it. Together. "Where do we start?"


End file.
